


It's not a fashion statement, it's a deathwish!

by cameliae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Courtship, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Some Humor, and geralt is a bully with valdo marx lol, and valdo marx surely did something wrong as always but this time he's just living his life, because of the pining sorry, kind of, no beta we die like valdo marx sadly didn't, somehow here jaskier is quite oblivious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25036963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: Without lowering his gaze from his eyes, Geralt just grabs his pot. Jaskier shivers, because oh, oh he knows that stare. He's mad, oh yes, he's so displeased with him – he can see it in his glowing golden irises. “And,” he adds, clearing his throat, “and it was better like this, after all, uh? My wishes weren't so, you know, fair. They weren't what I really wanted, not like you wished so much to sleep. The Countess was more like a muse than the love of my life, and Valdo Marx, naah, I hate him but I don't want his death, I– wait.” he blinks, “Wait.”He wished to a Djinn for Valdo's death. Geralt wished for peace and the Djinn translated that with Jaskier's death. It's practically the same thing!“Oh my Gods.” he says, and his voice cracks a bit, “I am Valdo. And you,” he points a fingers to Geralt, still looking at him saying anything, “you are me. I mean, oh Gods. Oh sweet Melitele.”After the incident with the Djinn, Jaskier comes to the conclusion that he has always treated Valdo Marx as Geralt has always treated him. He doesn't like this one bit. So, somehow, he now wants to accept Valdo's courtship. In the meantime, Geralt would really like to kick himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Priscilla, Jaskier | Dandelion & Valdo Marx
Comments: 43
Kudos: 209
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Bright lights that won't kill me now

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first long fic! I'm quite anxious, but I really like how this is going on. Kinda funny. I'm torturing again poor Geralt, sorry my dear! Btw sorry for eventual mistakes, I'm still not a mothertongue lol.
> 
> Title is from a My Chemical Romance's song that has the same name. ♥

The fire is growing after Geralt's care, twitching up to the sky as he feeds the embers with dry sticks and a little bit of his sign magic. Jaskier says silent as he sees Geralt doing it, not wanting to distract him, or nourishing his anger again. He stays there, seated on a log in front of the fire, on the side opposite of where Geralt is still frowning at the flames.

He doesn't seem happy, although he had quite the nap, back in Rinde.

Jaskier feels his mouth kneaded in an acrid taste, and he is not so sure it's just the hunger. Just the thought of Geralt fucking that sexy but definitely crazy witch leaves an awful sensation in his stomach – even though, and he has to admit it, looking at the both of them being _that much_ alive has been relieving and at the same time also arousing. Sad that Jaskier has to be in love with Geralt and, consequently, he hasn't been able to fully appreciate the sight.

Rinde, now, is a half a day behind their back. The sun is high in the sky, but there's no living soul nearby, so they had to stop into a clearing and cook what little food they have left. Nor he, nor obviously Geralt have talked much since they have left the scary witch behind.

Not that Jaskier doesn't want to talk, on the contrary. He would like to scream, in fact – but, well, after the whole Djinn–situation, he's a bit on edge, and on guard. He's not stupid, he knows that his almost death sentence was requested by Geralt – and of course he also knows that it wasn't what the man really wanted... _was it_? Well, it should, or else he wouldn't have tried to save his arse after all... _would he_? – so, now, he's trying to not push too much.

 _Geralt does not hate me_ , he muses, fidgeting with his fingers. His lute is abandoned next to him, untouched. He hasn't been singing or playing his beloved lute these past days, he feels a strangers into his own clothes, but he's giving – for now, mind you – Geralt the bit of peace he so much desires.

 _Geralt does not hate me_. “I'm sorry.” he says then, biting his lower lip. Geralt just raises his eyes from the fire and locks them into his. “For the... whole thing with the Djinn. Uh. I was a bit drunk, and a bit heartbroken, so I didn't, you know.” he moves his hand around, in a careful gesture, “I didn't think. I just acted. So, yeah. Sorry.”

Geralt just tightens his lips, grunting under the breath.

“But! See the bright side of the thing, you actually took a very nice nap!” he claps his hands, and Geralt still stares at him, deadpanned, “And, and with a very... nice... woman!”

Without lowering his gaze from his eyes, Geralt just grabs his pot. Jaskier shivers, because oh, _oh_ he knows that stare. He's mad, oh yes, he's so displeased with him – he can see it in his glowing golden irises. “And,” he adds, clearing his throat, “and it was better like this, after all, uh? My wishes weren't so, you know, _fair._ They weren't what I really wanted, not like you wished so much to sleep. The Countess was more like a muse than the love of my life, and Valdo Marx, naah, I hate him but I don't want his death, I– _wait_.” he blinks, “Wait.”

He wished to a Djinn for Valdo's death. Geralt wished for peace and the Djinn translated that with Jaskier's death. It's practically the _same_ thing!

“Oh my Gods.” he says, and his voice cracks a bit, “I am Valdo. And you,” he points a fingers to Geralt, still looking at him saying anything, “you are me. I mean, oh Gods. Oh sweet Melitele.”

The hate Jaskier feels against Valdo is unfair, he knows it. Back in Oxenfurt, Valdo was the most loved, most talented, most wanted trobadour wannabe of the whole university, and Jaskier, yes, hated him for that.

And Valdo, the shit fucked, was – and still is, much to his dismay – always _enamoured_ with Jaskier. Surely because he understands the grand innate talent of his voice and writings, and he surely admires the prose and the lyrics that Jaskier is capable to let out of his perfect lips and fingers – and thanks to that love bloomed in his heart at first sight. He passed years and years wooing Jaskier, but Jaskier _of course_ he never accepted his courtship.

But now, now that he thinks about it, the whole situation seems so _infairly_ similar to... well, to Geralt and his. Shit. He always treated Valdo the same way Geralt treats _him_.

He is the Valdo of their relationship.

Well, shit.

Geralt follows him with his glowing eyes while Jaskier stands and starts to pace around the fire. He has his brows furrowed, and the angry stare dissolves into a confused one while, in an almost religious silence, cooking. Jaskier's nose feels the faint perfume of the stew Geralt is preparing, but his mind is too concentrated in his new and quite unsettling discovery that not even his hungry stomach appreciates the smell.

“We have to go to Cidaris.” he says after he doesn't knows how long, but looking at the poor flavoured but almost ready stew, probably more than ten minutes. “I need to talk with Valdo.”

Geralt grunts, “Why? You wanted him dead.” he asks, and for the first time since they settled into this clearing, he finally stops staring at him and actually _talks_. Maybe Jaskier is forgiven for what he's done. Maybe.

“That's the point, Geralt. You see, I wanted Valdo dead when I was drunk and I thought that a genie was ready to grant any of my wishes. But you know that I am a magnanimous and a graceful being, so I am aware of my unfairness against my rival. He did not wronged me in any way, apart staying alive for so long. Uhm.” he clears his throat again, “Anyway, he does not deserve my deathwish. Nor my hate. He tried to court me, and I know for certain that he is still enamoured with me, so... yeah, it hurts to be treated bad from the one you love. I don't want to be that one, considering that now I can fully understand from experience what Valdo feels everytime I am mean to him.” _and what he would feel if he knows that Jaskier wished for his death._

Jaskier looks down at Geralt, who's glaring at the fire and at the stew. It's true that he does not like the thought that someone else – expecially _Valdo Marx_ of all – feels the same stuggles he is feeling. Not when it's Jaskier's fault, that is. But he'd like to make things right because, deep inside of him, he's conviced that if he, Jaskier, can appreciate, even love the bane of his existence, Valdo Marx – well, maybe one day Geralt will appreciate him too.

Maybe he will never love him back, but at least he will finally acknowledge their friendship. It's not that Jaskier is asking for too much, right? If Jaskier will be able to stop hating Valdo, then there is hope for him too, with Geralt.

“You.” Geralt blinks at the fire, “You wanted him _dead_.”

Jaskier shrugs, “Yes. But I want you to keep in mind that I was drunk and heartbroken, and that I deeply regret that.” Not _yet_ , but he's working on it. “So, now I will accept his courtship.”

Geralt's head snaps to look at him, still standing by the fire opposite to where he is sitting, “I can't see why you have to.”

“It's not that I _have to_. But I guess I want to try. Who knows, maybe he is the love of my life but I was too blinded by envy and unjustified hate that I couldn't see it. I just think that I should give him the possibility.”

“Now?”

Jaskier shrugs again, “Yeah. I understand it now.” he throws him a glance, and Geralt is again glaring at the fire with a stare that Jaskier can't quite get. “Uhm, Geralt, this is not some sick way that I'm using for obtaining your affection.” Well, it kinda is, but he does not have to know that. “I just know how Valdo feels now, that's it. This doesn't mean that you have to do the same thing with me, after all you don't love me but you don't hate me either, right?” he chuckles, but he can't help but being still on edge.

“Hm.” Geralt just says, continuing to glare at the embers.

“Okay. Are you fine?” Jaskier asks, because Geralt seems... off.

He grits his teeth and, oh fuck, he's angry again. “Yes.”

“I... I did say that _we_ should go to Cidaris, but, well, I can go there alone. There's no need for you to come with me, after all. You don't seem to be so eager to travel for the next week just for my love life, and I don't want to force my presence on you again, you... you did so much for me these past few days, so I don't want to be a nuisance to you again. We can see each other again next year, if you wish so!”

It pains him to be separate from Geralt for all those months, but after what happened with the Djinn, Jaskier doesn't want to break the peace he obtained. His throat has still the ghost of the pain he felt just thinking about that.

Not that he is afraid of Geralt, not at all, but... well, he can't help it. He's been so close to death, he doesn't want to repeat the experience.

Some muscle in Geralt's jaw twitches, when he speaks, “I have to go to Kaer Morhen. For the winter. Cidaris is on my way.”

Jaskier frowns, “Really? Wasn't Kaer Morhen up in the farthest north?”

“It is.”

“Cidaris is... south. Near the coast.”

“It's on _my_ way, I said. I'll accompany you there, then I'll go.”

“Oh.” And here he almost thought that maybe Geralt just wanted to be with him, instead he just has to do some job somewhere on the way. Jaskier sniff, and a faint burnt smell reaches his nostrils, “Uh, okay then! I'm actually very happy that you will be with me, I feel safer on the road with you. Expecially when you are so kind to share your food and not let me starve, if you... if you don't burn it, that is.”

Just then, Geralt realizes that the stew is burning and stops glaring at something into the fire.

He swears loudly, and Jaskier laughs.

❊

_Get a grip on yourself_. _Get a grip on your–fucking–self, you idiot_.

He can't... he really feels like an idiot. Geralt crosses the town with his clothes and armor drenched in blood – even his own –, and he grits his teeth at the sharp pain on his thigh from a deep cut, courtesy of the ghouls he had to kill for a contract. They haven't even been too many, or too famished, so Geralt is really frustrated by the fact that they have succeeded in attacking him. Fuck. It's almost embarassing, walking through the crowded streets to reach the tavern where he left Jaskier and Roach in its stables, while the awed eyes of the people cannot seem to leave him be.

He – fuck, he has to admit it at least to himself – was distracted, that's why the ghouls have got to touch him. And it was all the bard's fault.

When Geralt reaches the tavern, he doesn't hear a lute playing, or a melodious voice singing. Probably Jaskier is already done gaining their dinner for the day, but Geralt can't quite stop feeling that disturbing sensation that something seems off in Jaskier: he doesn't sing as much as he was used to, nor he composes anything while they are on the Path. In these past few days after they left Rinde, Jaskier's lute has been on the bard's shoulder like a shadow – visible, but untouched.

Geralt is probably overthinking it – he simply wasn't in the mood, surely, after the Djinn almost ripped his throat off, after all. He should still rest, take it easy on his voice. That's probably this – and _yet_ , and yet the sensation is still there, like a viscious vermin that murmurs in his ears and says that Jaskier just doesn't want to sing in front of him anymore.

Well, if that's the case, pity. But he can survive. He has almost... quite... maybe missed hearing him sing while they were apart, but this is fine too. He guesses he finally has obtained his beloved silence.

Hm.

Fuck.

He enters in the tavern opening the door, that creaks loudly under his push. There aren't a lot of patrons, and most of them are quite drunk or distracted by some women, so they pay him no mind. He eyes the barkeeper, but he doesn't raise his gaze from the mug he is drying with a rag. He doesn't care. He just hopes to get payed for his job, at least.

And there, seated by a table with a blonde woman that seems to hang from his lips, there is Jaskier. Jaskier that ought to be working for their food, not wasting all their money in wine and women, for fuck's sake.

Tightening his lips, Geralt marches until he reaches the table. Then, he actually _hears_ what the bard is saying. “So, my dear lady, that's why I cannot fall into the temptation that you so kindly are offering me.”

“That's so romantic.” sighs the woman that is on Jaskier's right, putting a hand softly on his arm, and there is no malice in her touch. “I wish I would find a man as faithful as you one day.”

Geralt frowns, while stumbling towards the table. Faithful? _Jaskier_?

“Oh, but you will, I am sure of it. The heart of a bard knows the language of love, so I know what I'm talking about when I say that you are ready to gleam in all your beauty with a righteous man, a man worthy of your affection. But alas, and it pains me to admit it, I am not the one.”

The woman flutters her eyelashes, smiling wide when Jaskier touches her hand, “And I am ready, oh I know that I am, master bard. It's really a shame you are already so in love!”

“Yes, yes, I know, dear la– la– _ah_ , Geralt! You're finally here, you did take your merry time slaughtering monsters!” Jaskier greets him the moment he sees him, as he falls on the wooden stoll in front of the both of them.

He has a grand smile on his face, his teeth are bare and his eyes are soft. He still has his hand squeezing the woman's, but his attention is solely on him. Geralt sometimes doesn't know how to take his eyes off him, off his so open and fond expression – Geralt is not stupid, he can feel the interest Jaskier has in his regards, he always had it from day one, even though Geralt's never understood _how_ is that possible. And now he can't fucking believe that the bard is spreading his... his... _affection_ for him to anyone!

Geralt narrows his eyes. He doesn't say anything, he just grabs his bag where he has stored his potions. While he searches for the right one for blood loss and infections – the cut, damn it, is deep – he hears as the woman beside Jaskier catches her breath, and with the corner of his eyes Geralt sees her leaning on the bard and murmuring in his ear: “Is he the one you were talking about?”

“Uh, oh, no no!” Jaskier chuckles, and his cheeks reddens, “I was talking about... about the trobadour of Cidaris, I am to believe that you heard of him?”

Geralt blinks, and stops his rummaging through his bag. He's... _what_? Jaskier wasn't talking about him? He swallows the acrid taste of the disappointment – why the fuck is he feeling like that, though?!

“Oh my fucking Gods, Geralt, not _again_. You are bleeding your heart out onto the floor and you aren't doing _anything_ about that, Melitele's tits, every time is the same story!” Jaskier cries out of exasperation, standing up and storming at his side.

“I'm searching for the potion.” he mumbles, while the bard snatches off his hands his bag.

Jaskier kneels to look better at his tigh, and Geralt freezes. _Get a grip on yourself. Get a grip on your–fucking–self._ “That's surely not enough. Let me see... oh Gods, you need to stitch it together. Here, this is the potion, drink it, while I do my best to prevent you end up without your leg.”

He pushes the right potion – how the fuck does he always know what he needs? – into his hands, then he starts to stitch his cut with the utmost care, as he always did, while muttering under his breath about the disgusting stench and the stickiness of the blood. Geralt feels the woman's eyes on him, she is still there watching them, but Geralt totally ignores her stare – he doesn't know what she is thinking about and he doesn't care either.

He breathes in deeply and slowly, twitching just slightly as the needle pierces through the already swollen flesh. Jaskier's touch is light and not at all painful, after all it's been years since he started doing this for him. He always says that he's become a master at stitching witchers together again.

After a minute or so, the woman excuses herself and goes away, her face slightly green, probably thanks to the sight of the amount of blood pooling at Geralt's feet.

“You lost your occasion, I think.”

“Oh? That dear lady, you mean? No, don't worry, Geralt. I had no intention to bed her even if she remained here.” Jaskier shrugs, but he doesn't distract himself from his job. His little tongue is stuck between his lips, his nose wrinkled and his brows are furred in concentration.

Geralt nostrils flare, while breathing.

“Hard to believe.” he snorts, forcing his eyes off Jaskier.

Jaskier sighs, “It is, though. You should learn to think better of me, Geralt. I can be loyal, and faithful, if I want to.”

“Faithful to _who_.” asks then Geralt, with a tip of exasperation in his voice.

“What does it mean, _who_? Valdo, of course.”

That name. Geralt doesn't have a face to that name, but he already hates him with all his being. With a suspiscious twitch on a nerve near his eyes, he growls, “You aren't with him now.”

“Oh, you brute, don't growl at me, I'm almost done. Sometimes you're like a big, whiny child.” Jaskier says, then he cuts the thread and covers the closed wound with a piece of cloth. “See? A perfect job, as always. Anyway, you're right, I'm not yet with Valdo, but I made up my mind, and if I am going to accept his courtship, I have to behave. I don't even feel the urge to fall into someone's bed, you know? Well, if I have to be honest, I _always_ feel the urge, but right now... I want to satisfy myself with... with...” Jaskier grimaces, then looks up and locks his bright eyes into his, “Someone I love deeply, and not just for a night.”

“You aren't in love with him.”

“Not yet.”

“You _hate_ him.”

“An unjustified hate, I must say.”

“That's... not important if it's unjustified or not. I don't understand why you– you–” he trails off, looking around. No one is paying them any attention, but somehow he is feeling under judgment – he feels as if Roach is staring at him with her pitch black eyes and judging him with blankness.

Jaskier watches him with his soft eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “What you don't understand is, probably, what _I_ mean with courtship. If between Valdo and me works, I want it to be forever. I don't need to start a courtship just for a fling or for a mere temporary love, don't you think so too?”

Geralt thinks so too.

Grudgingly, he nods, but he still has that awful taste in his mouth that he can't quite understand in thinking about Jaskier with a _man_... that is not him. Not in a romantic way – _no_? –, he just doesn't like the idea that Jaskier is so serious about a man he hated until not even two days before today, and he seems now to have completely forgotten about the love he for almost ten years decanted for Geralt.

He doesn't even know _why_ is so annoyed by this!

“Why him, though?” he asks, and winces, because he didn't mean to say that. This shouldn't be his problem, nor his business.

But Jaskier just hums, “It's pretty egoistical, I am aware of that, but the reason is... He cares for me, I think. If I'll fall in love with him, I have the confidence that he will reciprocate me. And also because I know how he feels and all, I was in his shoes after all. We kind of have a connection, somehow.”

Geralt tightens his lips. His mouth, if possible, becomes more kneaded.

“So, this is the reason. Or well, the reasons.” Jaskier chuckles, carefree, as he gets up from the floor and grabs another piece of cloth to remove as much blood stains from his hands as possible, “But worry not, my dear friend. Me being in a committed relationship doesn't mean the end for us as a travelling companions!”

“Pity.” he grunts, but without the lack of spite he always used before.

“Yes, yes, I know, you ungrateful bastard.” Jaskier raises his eyes to the sky, “But I let you know, no more rubbing chamomile on your bottom or similar things. You know, with the whole courtship and commitment and faithfulness, it's inapproriate to touch intimate parts of... a friend.”

“Hm. No more massages?”

Jaskier shakes his head, a smug smile on his lips.

“Pity.” he repeats, and this time he really means that.

Jaskier laughs laudly, and pats his shoulder as he walks away, “I'm going to order something for you to the barkeeper. Even though you have no faith in me, I did play some songs before you came back and gained us a room and food and drinks at least until tomorrow. And yes, yes, I'm going to grab your pay from him too, do not fret. You're welcome, by the way!”

As Geralt watches him arguing with the barkeeper, with his typical seducing grin and his confusing words, he can't stop himself to feel somehow relieved. _Worry not, my dear friend. Me being in a committed relationship doesn't mean the end for us as a travelling companions!_

He does no know what he would do if Jaskier stops entering, with his bright clothes and chameleon eyes and swaggering steps and melodious voice, into his life at the end of every winter as he did for the past ten years.

Fuck.

Fuck, he's got used – _addicted_ – to his presence by his side and he hasn't even noticed.

They are almost at Cidaris' door. They have to walk for one – or perhaps two, considering the slowness of Jaskier's steps – days before they reach the heart of the region, where this trobadour is lodging according to Jaskier, but they finally arrived at destination.

Already.

Geralt feels the starts of a headache that's becoming more and more painful at every step that brings them closer to Cidaris. And to make things worse, his stomach still has that awful burning sensation that he can't quite get, making the taste in his mouth unbearable. Squirrel meat isn't enough to brush away the grime he feels under his tongue.

Maybe he's ill. He hasn't been ill since before the Trial, but he guesses there's always a first time for everything. Perhaps he drank too much of his potions, or probably the ale he gulped in the last town they visited was made out of piss. Who knows. Not him.

Walking slowly to the clearing where Jaskier and Roach are waiting for him – hopefully, Jaskier has already let Roach eat and he's now feeding the fire so it won't burn out –, after washing himself at the nearby river, he hears a sweet, soft melody coming from the clearing. Geralt stops in his track; Jaskier is playing, finally. It's been _days_. They have been walking for miles and miles and the bard not once made the gesture to take the lute from his shoulder and sing a jig to pass the time, nor he murmured under his breath a new lyric. That's been so, so strange. Almost unbearable.

But finally, Jaskier seems to be himself again.

Geralt, though, doesn't go where he is sitting on his bedroll, near the fire. He stays hidden in the shadows of the woods around the clearing, hearing as Jaskier plicks at his lute's strings, as he sings carefree with his eyes closed. The sun is already set, so the only light that brightens his face is the fire's, makes his hair looks almost blonde and his skin almost made of gold. Roach is on the ground behind him, probably already snoring, and Jaskier is leaning on her side for support.

Geralt doesn't know what to think, he just... likes what he sees. He likes the familiarity of that sight, the quieteness and softeness of it all. He likes the peaceful expression on Jaskier's face.

And he's doing that while... Geralt isn't with him.

Suddenly, the uneasiness in his stomach becomes even more painful.

Leaving the woods behind, Geralt marches toward the clearing and the moment Jaskier notices him, he jolts and stops playing. He smiles tentatively at him, while, with utmost care, placing his lute inside its case. “Ah, sorry, Geralt! I lost track of time, are you done at the river? Come, come, there's a bit of jerky beef here waiting just for you.”

“Why did you stop?” he asks, and he tries to not sound as disappointed as he really feels. This is the proof that Jaskier does not want to play in front of him again.

Jaskier tilts his head, as he hands him the beef that Geralt immediately grabs, and almost without noticing, he lingers for bit in the touch of his fingertips against his, “Oh?”

Geralt sits on his own bedroll, on the opposite side of where Jaskier is. “Why did you stop playing now?”

“I thought you didn't want to hear me sing.” he shrugs, lowering his eyes. “You know, with the whole fillingless pie _joke_. It still hurts here, Geralt. Right here, in my chest.” he says, with a slap against his violet doublet where his heart – and Geralt clearly hears it – is beating so loud it must be deafening. “But I forgive you, I know you were sleep–deprieved, and I _am_ magnanimous with my friends, after all.”

“It was a joke.” Geralt says, even if he feels the pluck of guilt raising from his stomach into his mouth, because it may have been true that he was messing with him, but he said it with a cruelty that Jaskier didn't deserve, that he _never_ deserves. “You don't have to... stop singing just for a stupid joke.”

“And yet, the best jester always confesses with a joke, so that no one ever takes him seriously, don't you know? Uh, not that you are a jester, I don't mean it, it's just a saying.”

“I don't mind you singing.”

Jaskier blinks. “ _Sooo_... does that mean that you like my singing?”

“As long as you don't overdo it.”

Jaskier smiles so wide after his words that his cheeks must definitely hurt. “Yes! I knew it! Down below, I knew you like my singing!” he exclaims, throwing his fists to the air. Roach, behind him, snorts in her disturbed sleep, and Jaskier hushes, patting her side to calm her.

Jaskier grabs his lute again, and plicks its strings with the lightest touch of his fingertips. He starts to sing in a low voice, his eyes half–closed and a happy smile tugging his lips. He sings about a far away place, seen when his eyes where still the one of a child. He sings about sensations he cannot feel anymore, and that he misses so dearly.

It's a song Geralt has never heard of before, and he probably started composing while they were apart, way before they met in Rinde. “This is new.” he says, while the last note of his lute still echoes around them.

“Quite new, yes. I actually never played in front of someone before.”

Geralt, for some unknown reason, perks up at that. “Hm.”

“Thanks, Geralt!” Jaskier's eyes gleams, reading in his grunt whatever he'd like to hear, as always, “Do you think Valdo would appreciate it? Maybe if I change some of the lyrics... it will probably be a good gift. Not that I have to gift him anything, after all _he_ will be the one courting me and not the other way around, but, well, I want to. I always compose songs for the people I love.”

Again, the bile rises through his throat, feeling as if there's ashes inside his mouth. He's definitely ill, there's no other reason for him to feel like this. “You don't love him.”

“Not yet.”

Perhaps it's an intolerance. An intolerance caused by hearing that fucking trobadour's name, there's no other explanation.

And yet, watching him so full of expectation, with his scent so sweet with affection toward someone that is _not Geralt_ , he just has to look at him as he falls out of love for him and right into another man's arms, who is probably more worthy than Geralt will ever be, who will love him unconditionally and that will never, never ask to a Djinn for his death just for _silence._

Silence that, and now he knows, it's not blessed anymore.

“I don't... like very much sweet food.” he says, then frowns. He doesn't know why he's said that.

Jaskier looks at him with a confusing stare.

“I prefer pies without filling.”

When the night comes and they're both into their own bedrolls, Geralt can't even close his eyes. He still has the happiness that's radiated from Jaskier tickling on his skin. And somehow, he doesn't even feel annoyed by the fact that he won't get any sleep once again.


	2. Hip hip hooray for me, you talk to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Marx's green eyes settle on Geralt with a careful pace, then he looks at him up and down. He smiles, stumbles a bit more and finally sits right beside Jaskier. One hand still touches his shoulder. “Oh, yes, Geralt of Rivia. The mighty Witcher. Julian always, always, talks about you.” he flicks out a hand – the one not still on Jaskier's fucking shoulder – to shake hands with him, but Geralt doesn't move. In another occasion, Geralt may have been amazed by his confidence, even in the presence of a Witcher – even though Geralt can still smell some hint of nervousness under the sickening perfumes – but not today.  
>  Especially not with this man, who's Geralt seems to have an intolerance for._
> 
> They finally arrive in Cidaris, and they finally meet Valdo Marx. And Geralt doesn't like him. not. even. a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the fandom seems to imagine Valdo Marx as Robert Sheehan. And yes, me too.  
> So well, imagine Valdo like him in The Umbrella Academy but with longer hair, alright?
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, y'all so sweet! ♥ (still sorry tho for mistakes here and there!)

“See, gentlemen, my traveling companion and me are here not to cause troubles, but to find a person that I have to believe lodges somewhere in town. We already have crossed half the region, and I have no intention to go down to Roggeveen and see if who I am searching for is there. Because he is not. Do you all want to know why I am so sure about that? Well, glad that you asked, gentlemen, because this person is Valdo Marx, trobadour of Cidaris, and bard of King Ethain's court. Does his name ring a bell in your inebriated minds?”

The men, seated in front of a half–destroyed wall and with half–full bottles of beer each – let's not count the amount of completely empty ones that are by their feet –, grunt something that Jaskier can't catch immediately, followed by loud laughters that get in his nerve. The _audacity_ they have to laugh at him! How dare they!

“Oh, Melitele's holy shit!” he swears, raising his arms to the sky, exasperated, “I will ask this one more time, and please, _please_ , try to better articulate your words, do not kill our language with your animalistic sound, shall you?”

“Jaskier.” he hears Geralt hissing his name through gritted teeth.

“No, no, Geralt, you won't stop me. That is what they deserve, after all. I just asked them a question! Does they have to behave like that? Not at all! So it does not matter if _I_ will not behave either! We have been here for _hours_ already! Hours taken from my courtship!”

“Courtship!” one of the men burst out, laughing his arse off, as if that word is the most hilarious thing he's heard in ages.

Jaskier closes his eyes, and breathes in. Then, he turns to look at Geralt, who's looming behind him like a shadow, with his arms crossed against his broad chest and a face that seems the emblem of patience wearing thin. “Geralt,” he tells his name, holding his chin high, “do your witchering.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt, you just have to... slosh one of your scary sword around, glare at them with your scary face, so they'll finally sober up enough to answer our godsdamn question!”

Geralt sigh, “No sloshing swords.” he says before pushing him apart, and heading toward the drunk men, that when they notice him they jolt and widen their eyes in awe. “Where is _Valdo Marx_?” Geralt asks, spitting Valdo's name like a curse. Uh, strange. Probably Geralt cannot stand the whole situation anymore, and now he's completely exasperated. Thanks for him, they just have to find Valdo – or at least a place where Jaskier can spend the night, then Geralt can stop feeling obligated in staying with Jaskier and go on with his things. Jaskier can't help but feel the pang of disappointment and heartache thinking how long will it be before they'll meet again.

Hopefully, he'll use the whole time to fall in love with Valdo.

Ugh.

One of the men almost lets the bottle in his hand fall, “Uhhh,” he says, very intelligently, “There is a bard that usually sings during festivities and parties. He lives in the King's palace, he's his host!”

“He's _what_.” Jaskier shrieks, then smacks his hand against his thigh, “That _ruffian_!”

_No, Jaskier_ , he stops himself. _You can't hate him._ But Gods, sometimes it's so difficult. Consciously, he knows that it's not Valdo's fault that he won that competition back in Oxenfurt – and gained his actual place in King Ethain's court – that Jaskier desired so much, but the envy and the hurt is still so vivid and strong. It's been years, for Melitele's sake. He should stop feeling so _salty_ about that.

When Geralt turns to look at him, with a blank expression on his face, Jaskier cannot feel sorry for himself. If he had won that competition, he would have never met Geralt, and no luxury, no having a King as a best friend, no cottage near the sea as he always dreamed of would be better than the life on the road with a Witcher. With _this_ Witcher, at least.

“You can usually find a bard in taverns around the city!” says another one of the men, then the three of them get distracted by who knows what and start again drinking and laughing by themselves. Good. Jaskier doesn't need them anymore.

“Let's go, my friend.” he says, walking away from the drunkard with Geralt tugging Roach's reins. “Now I have to go in every tavern of the city and see if Valdo's there. That's so tedious, Gods. I won't blame you if you leave now, Geralt.”

“I don't mind.”

“Really? Here in the city I am quite safe, I think.”

Geralt looks straight in front of him, “Hm. That's... alright. I don't mind. I'll leave when you find this Valdo Marx.” and yet again, a grimace appears on his face when he says Valdo's name.

“Oh? Someone is curious?” he bumps his shoulder with his.

“You didn't shut up about him for a week. Now I want to see him. Something's wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all.” _not if Valdo won't steal you from me too, as he already did with everything else._ Jaskier winces slightly – no, he should stop lingering in those feelings. Valdo conquered everything Jaskier wanted just because he's always been better than him. He _must_ have been, even though Jaskier never saw his innate talent or his unnatural beauty. He's always been... mediocre, for him, he dares to say. Jaskier guesses that the hate he felt – and grudgingly still feels – has made him blind.

“Hm.” If Geralt has noticed his wince, he doesn't say anything.

Cidaris is, well, beautiful, as he always imagined. It's a colorful and lively city, and it smells like the sea. Jaskier has always loved the sea, since he was a little child, that's why he wanted so much to win that competition and become trobadour of Cidaris. He's been so miserable back then, he felt better just when he met Geralt and started to travel with him, but before... it has been like he failed the one thing he wanted from life.

And it's been so easy giving Valdo the blame.

Suddenly, Geralt bumps his shoulder, as he did minutes ago. Jaskier looks at him – rubbing against the now sore spot – blinking confusedly. The only response from Geralt is a grunt, nothing new, but this time Jaskier doesn't understand what he means with just that. “What is it?”

“You're silent.”

Jaskier snorts, “Well, lucky you then.”

They walk in silence after that, through the chaotic streets. Geralt seems bored, he just looks straight ahead of him, but Jaskier's never been in Cidaris before, so he lets his eyes roam everywhere, studying the new colors and new sounds, and if only he concentrates enough, he can hear the waves crushing against the rocks, even though the sea is somewhere far from the city center. The marketplace is full of stalls loaded with useless but shiny trinkets that he already adores, they sell fabrics and material made with the most smooth velvet and simply cotton, and he can't wait to spend all his money on them so he can make a new doublet and new trousers officially made with Cidarian silk.

Maybe Valdo Marx will gift him something like that during the courting. Jaskier never cared before, so he doesn't really know what to expect with the courtship and all, apart from the basics. He guesses that he doesn't have to wait long to find out.

Jaskier can already see an inn and a tavern with the corner of his eye.

“Perhaps is better if I get a room for the time being.” he murmurs.

“Hm.” Geralt grunts, following as Jaskier quickens the pace. “Won't your boyfriend–wannabe host you wherever he may lodge?”

“Uhm... maybe? Does it work like this during a courtship? I must admit, I am quite ignorant on the subject.”

“No.” answers Geralt, way to quickly. Jaskier must really be wrong, it seems. “It's not. Usually the... the couple must stay away from each other. For decorum. They have to see themselves always with the presence of a chaperon.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, “Oh, and why do you know that?”

“I just know. Courtships were very popular fifty years ago.”

“As far as I know, they still are quite popular.”

Geralt just shrugs, and says nothing more. He just silently keeps on following him with Roach on tow, and just his mere presence is able to give him so much security and sense of safety that he doesn't realize immediately that the more he goes near his goal – or at least, find a place to pass the night waiting to find his goal – the less is become of the time he will pass with Geralt.

He tries not to think about that now, or his mood would drastically drop.

They get inside the inn and no one welcomes them, least of all the innkeeper. Jaskier's mouth edges tug towards the ground seeing that no bard is performing, nor drinking his heart out – and he remembers as clear as the sky the passion Valdo has for good wine – but the night is fallen upon their heads, and he's feeling the fatigue of the past four days passed camping in the woods, so far away from civilization. Jaskier would just like to go to sleep, now.

He talks quickly with the innkeeper that gives him a room on the third floor, and Jaskier pays for just one night, for now. Meanwhile Geralt waits near the exit after dropping Roach into the stable, studying his surrounding with an annoyed face.

“Well, my friend.” he pats his shoulder when he reaches him, “See you around.”

“We didn't find Valdo Marx.”

“I'll go search for him tomorrow, now I have to admit that tiredness is getting the better out of me. You won't miss anything if you don't meet him, believe me.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, “Are you trying to get rid of _me_ , bard?”

“ _Whaa_ – what.” Jaskier opens his mouth in outrage, “You very well _know,_ Geralt, that I would _never_ try to get rid of–” he immediately shuts up, because _fuck_ the Witcher, he does _not_ need any more confirmations about his love for him. Great, now he's tired _and_ offended. He tightens his lips and says, “Of course not, my _friend_. I would never do that to my _dearest_ friend. Who do you think I am, an insensible moron that wishes for his _best_ friend out of his sight?”

Something twitches in Geralt's eye, a tic probably. Jaskier doesn't care one bit. “I know you wouldn't.” he grunts, and Jaskier yes, okay, he _does_ feel a pang of guilt hearing his shameful tone. “It's almost evening, Jaskier. It would be stupid for me to travel during the night.”

“Oh. Oh, oh Geralt. Sorry, I... I didn't realize it was so late! I am really tired, it wasn't an excuse, I swear. We can share the room if you'd like! After all Roach also deserves a rest, poor girl, the stables seems pretty comfortable when I saw them passing by, wasn't it?”

“Hm. C'mon then.”

Somehow, Jaskier feels as if he's fallen right into a trick. Or that he's missing something crucial.

Frowning, he stumbles while following Geralt to their shared room. Geralt doesn't say anything, and Jaskier, uh, doesn't really know what to say. He feels quite confused.

Oh, well. It's probably the fatigue.

❊

When Geralt opens his eyes, the sun is rising, bathing Cidaris with its golden warm rays.

There's a soft weight against his shoulder, and lightly puffs of air crushes against his upper arm. Geralt would like to sigh, exasperated, and tell Jaskier that he should stop using him as his personal pillow, but when he turns to look at his sleeping face, he doesn't do anything.

He just stays there, watching as Jaskier continues to sleep. His face is smooth, no lines wrinkles his forehead. His eyelashes flutters with tiny movements, as he follows the dream he's having. This is hardly the first time Geralt has the possibility to watch him as he sleeps – trying not to be too creepy doing that – but now it feels... different. He's still trying to forget the sight of a dying Jaskier, there on Yennefer's bed, that now staring at his pink and lively cheeks, and his twitching fingers, at his loud, so loud heartbeat, he feels relieved.

But strange. He feels strange. What the fuck is happening to him.

Without even noticing, Geralt leans toward the mop of his hair and inhales. He smells as he always does, of wildflowers and meadows and a tiny hint of chamomile. There's nothing new, nothing worth of notice. He still smells as contented as he always is near him, even while sleeping.

Frustrated, he untangles his limbs and frees himself from Jaskier's grip. When he gets up, Jaskier just rolls over and hugs one of the slim pillows, circling it with arms and legs. Jaskier's always been so touchy, so affectionate, especially during the nights; he seems to need something to grip, something – some _one_ – to cuddle. Sometime happens to be him the one getting attached as if he was an octopus, sometime the lucky ones are random people.

It's always been fine, Jaskier is a man that needs contact. But now, if only Geralt starts to think that Jaskier will sleep like this beside this famous Valdo Marx, he feels again that awful burning in his stomach.

Jaskier always came back. Every time he bedded a lady, he always came back to him, after, with hickeys on his collarbone, swollen lips and a different scent on him. But still, he came back.

This time, he probably won't.

In fact, Jaskier cannot seems to wait to get rid of him. And he will, he definitely will: Geralt doesn't want to be the third wheel, and he wants Jaskier to be happy and following what he desires. He wants him to be in love with someone that isn't him, because Geralt would surely just give him heartache. Geralt brings death. And he almost brought _Jaskier's_.

But before he leaves, he needs to see this fathomable trobadour.

He gets dressed quickly, while Jaskier grunts some indefinite mumbling in his sleep. Throwing him one last look, he finds himself tracing the curve of his back with his eyes and yet again, his eye twitches. _Get a grip on yourself, damn it!_

He needs to find a healer, because there's definitely something wrong in his stomach. Geralt does not think that he'll never find a healer courageous enough – or kind enough, as Jaskier would say – that would give him a cure to whatever evil is crawling through his esophagus. Or maybe he needs a sorcerer, perhaps he's cursed. Who knows. If only he could contact Yennefer...

He sighs. He opens the door and closes it behind his back, and it creaks loudly, but not enough to wake Jaskier, it seems.

“Oh, good morning Geralt! I'm so glad you are still here. You could have woken me up!”

“I tried.” he lies easily, because in a sense it's still true. Nothing wakes Jaskier before sunrise, even if he really would have tried to wake him. “And I failed.”

Jaskier mouth opens in mock surprise, “Oh Gods, is the hell freezing perhaps? Are you really admitting that you failed in something?”

Jaskier's hair is still ruffled, and his white, frilly chemise is slightly wrinkled. While he sits on the table in front him, he yawns and scratches the back of his head, ruffling, if that's even possible, more his hair. Then he blinks at him, with a soft, still sleepy smile stretching his lips.

Because of that smile, Geralt can't find the will to make fun of him.

Jaskier stretches a hand toward what remains of his breakfast, “I'm famished. May I?” he asks, grabbing without waiting for an answer, a piece of bread. Then he sniffs at his drink, and licks his lips. Geralt does not watch that gesture. He does not stare at the tip of his tongue caressing his upper lip. Not at all.

_Get a grip on yourself!_

“Apple juice?” Jaskier says, with an incredulous grimace, “Do you miss your witch that much?”

Yes. Yes, he misses her. Yennefer would be of help about the curse that it's making his insides twist whenever he thinks of Valdo Marx, if nothing else. “I asked for ale.”

“So early in the morning? You have the guts, I must confess. The waiter probably thought you were joking. Ah! The good old jokes of a Witcher.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Drink it. Too sweet for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, now we know you don't have the sweet tooth, do you?”

“Just... drink it, Jaskier. Without the commentary.”

Jaskier stucks out his tongue at him. Geralt still doesn't look at that. _No_. “You are such a boring man!” he exclaims, fondly. He grabs the mug and drinks it quietly, his eyes sparkling and still sleepy. Geralt pushes his half empty plate towards him and they just stay there, in the reassuring silence of the deserted common room.

Suddenly, a bang. Then, “ _Julian_!” and Jaskier almost kills himself, choking on the apple juice. He coughs and coughs, beating against his chest until he's able to breath again, and turns around to see who the fuck it's shouting inside an inn right after sunrise.

“Julian, my dear!”

Jaskier smiles in a terrible way. It's almost a disgusted grimace, “Ah, Valdo. Valdo! Oh, you. Valdo.” he starts to do something funny with his hands up in the air, “Valdo!”

Geralt frowns, “Julian...?”

Jaskier glances at him, still wearing that terrible smile. “This, later.”

When Geralt finally turns, he sees him. This famous Valdo Marx, the man Jaskier almost killed with a wish, and the man that apparently has loved Jaskier for years. The men that he'll court him and that will make him happy as he deserves.

Fuck.

He's quite good looking.

Even though he's stumbling towards them not in a straight line, and he's bumping against the empty chairs while walking. He has brown hair that falls in locks on his shoulder, his eyes are the color of the grass. He has mustaches and the start of a beard on his chin. There is kohl smudging under his eyes.

And well, he's drunk. Or so it seems. He doesn't smell bad, Geralt must give him that – his scent is completely hidden under a coat made of expensive perfumes and oils, more powerful than the ones Jaskier uses.

Valdo Marx falls right into Jaskier's arms, and Jaskier seems to freeze. That smile still doesn't leave his face. “Oh, Julian, my beloved. Some friends came to me in this fine morning and told me that there was a beautiful man searching for me yesterday, and when they said _beautiful man_ I immediately thought of you. How could I have not! Are those crow's feet beneath your wonderful eyes, by the way? The life on the road is straining your beauty, I must tell you, my darling.”

Jaskier first squeezes his eyes, then he looks up to the sky as if asking Melitele herself for help. “I'm perfectly fine with the life on the road, Valdo. Could you free me right this instant, if you'd be so kind?”

Valdo Marx stops hugging him, but he leaves his hands on his shoulders. The twitch under Geralt's eye appears again, at that sight. “Julian.” Marx says that name again, seeming in awe.

Jaskier inhales sharply, “Valdo.”

“You didn't snarl at me!” he exclaims, and his eyes sparks. Somehow.

“No, Valdo. I didn't snarl at you.”

This is ridiculous. This man is ridiculous. And the first fucking thing he said to Jaskier – apart for some cheap compliments – is telling Jaskier that he shouldn't travel. Who the fuck does he think he is? Fuck him. _The life on the road is straining your beauty_. Fuck _him_.

This fucker wants to take Jaskier away from him.

_Wasn't this the whole purpose of the courtship, though?_ Hm. It is. But Jaskier promises that even with the courtship, even after months or years, this wouldn't mean the end of their travels. What if this is what Jaskier really wants? That seems unlikely. Being _his_ bard is his whole life, right? He will be able to be the husband of this fucking man _and_ his traveling companion, right?

Hm. Husband. Jaskier will be... a _husband_? If that's what Jaskier wants, Geralt will complies. He doesn't have the right to meddle with his business, after all.

Bile fills his mouth. Here it goes again.

Without noticing, he starts to drum his fingers against the wooden table, trying to control his facial expression: the twitching is still there, and he's pretty sure that he's wearing that scary face Jaskier is so fond of. It doesn't make sense, though. Why is he mad? Why he's so nervous? Fuck.

“Ah, Valdo, here's my traveling companion, Geralt of Rivia, you surely remember him, right?” Jaskier says suddenly, presenting him with a flourishing gesture of hand.

Marx's green eyes settle on Geralt with a careful pace, then he looks at him up and down. He smiles, stumbles a bit more and finally sits right beside Jaskier. One hand still touches his shoulder. “Oh, yes, Geralt of Rivia. The mighty Witcher. Julian always, _always_ , talks about you.” he flicks out a hand – the one not still on Jaskier's fucking shoulder – to shake hands with him, but Geralt doesn't move. In another occasion, Geralt may have been amazed by his confidence, even in the presence of a Witcher – even though Geralt can still smell some hint of nervousness under the sickening perfumes – but not today.

Especially not with this man, who's Geralt seems to have an intolerance for.

Marx stays with his hand stretched in front of him in waiting, not even bothered by the fact that Geralt is not moving to shake it. He throws a glance at Jaskier, who's looking at Geralt with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Is it a bad morning?” Marx asks.

Jaskier shrugs, “He's always like that. It took me three or four years, more or less, just to touch his horse.”

Marx slaps his hand against the wooden table, laughing, “Of course, of course, Julian, I remember your stories! Not that you actually told me them yourself, but you know how this things go at Oxenfurt, even the walls have ears.” He smiles at Geralt, then. He has white, straight teeth. “Julian always says you are hard to get. He never seems to stop talking about you and your adventures, but mind you, I don't believe every words that escape through that cute little mouth. Some of the fables he likes to tell, because fables are I am sure of that, are so unbelievable!”

“Valdo.” Jaskier hisses, while Geralt raises an eyebrow at him.

“Come on, they are quite unrealistic. How can I believe that you saved this Witcher, this big and fearsome Witcher, from the hands of a bruxa just by seducing her–”

“Ah, _aaaah_ Valdo!” Jaskier shrieks and interrupts him, taking his hand off his shoulder and tightening it between his. Probably too hard, Geralt muses, seeing as Marx winces. Sadly, he does nothing to free himself. “Valdo.” says again Jaskier, through gritted teeth. But then, his face smooths as he looks into Marx's eyes, and Geralt, again, feels an awful taste under his tongue. “I need to talk to you. Alone.” he adds, with a soft voice and soft expression.

Marx blinks, “You want to talk to _me_ , my beloved? _Alone_?”

Jaskier nods, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? Are you really ready?”

Jaskier looks up, probably asking for Melitele's help once again. “I just want to _talk_ , Valdo. Here, possibly.” he glances at Geralt, and something sad glints in his bright eyes, “Do you mind, my friend?” he asks, and his voice is so kind, and tentatively. As if that's not what he really wants.

But it is, right? It must be.

Geralt nods, and stands. Without looking at Marx – nor at Jaskier, even if he does want to, for a reason he can't comprehend – he marches off the inn. He still feels like shit, he still feels like something it is twisting his insides, that his stomach is burning. He still feels like a dead animal is lodging inside his mouth, and he probably should have drunk that apple juice even if he doesn't like it at all. At least, the bad taste would have disappeared.

Now he has to live with it.

“Uh, Geralt?”

Geralt turns. Jaskier is still sitting next to Marx, he still has his hand in his. But his eyes are looking at him, pleadingly. They aren't blue now, because a ray of sun is hitting at him right on his face, and Geralt has a flash of some time ago, in a shitty tavern with shitty ale, where Jaskier looked just like now. Pleadingly, sunbathed and with his eyes as clear as a river's water.

“Would you wait for me, before you go off to your witchering adventure? I... I'd like to kiss Roach goodbye.”

“Hm.” he grunts. “Sure.” because why should he say no, after all.

Once outside, the streets aren't as crowded as the day before. It's still early in the morning, and no one minds him at all, while he walks to the stable to go see Roach. He thinks that he should brush her mane, and saddle her. Maybe it's best if, before he departs, he goes in the marketplace and buys some supplies. The Path to Kaer Morhen is long, it will take at least two months if he never stops, but–

But.

He has no reason at all. There is something very wrong with him, because he has no reason at all, while he stomps back on the street he has just crossed to go back to the inn, to go and fucking _spy_ on Jaskier's conversation with that hateful man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are very appreciated and encourage me to keep on writing! ♥
> 
> Say hi to me at my tumblr! @countessdestael


	3. The damage you've inflicted, temporary wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Marx is looking at Jaskier with blinking, wide eyes. “I knew that one day you would have surrendered to me, my beloved. You did take your time, but here you are now.”  
>  Jaskier grimaces, and shifts in his seat, “Well, I didn't understand a lot of things before, Valdo. Now I am more...” he shuts up, then he sighs, “Wise, now.”  
> “You are getting old, my dear. You aren't that gallivant beautiful boy you once were at eighteen, when you ran away from Oxenfurt in search for adventure, instead to join me here.”  
> “Fuck you, Valdo, I'm not even thirty!”  
> “The point?” Marx flutters his lashes, grinning. Geralt grits his teeth even more, he feels them chip for the force of it. “You know I want the best for you. And the best is this, Julian, the same life you wanted, the life I unconsciously took away from you. If you're willing, I am going to share it with you.”_
> 
> Valdo is a little shit. Geralt is also a little shit, but he's angry too. Jaskier is just so very confused, but quite happy that Geralt seems to remain here with him for a few days more!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this fanfiction will be no longer than 10 chapter (of more or less 5k each). But nothing is sure, mind you. Prepare yourself at my first 100k! (no. really, no.)
> 
> Thank you so so so much for all the comments and kudos! ♥ And yep, I still say sorry for the mistakes and all sobs.

He's a fool. He feels like one, while he sneaks behind the inn to search the same window where – if Jaskier didn't change location, at least – should be near the table he's had breakfast.

When he finds it, he settles right before it. It's a perfect place, he muses. If Geralt leans a bit, he has the whole view of his old table, and thanks to his super witchering powers, as Jaskier always names them, he hears every words pronounced in there.

The street's becoming more crowded as the day begins, but thankfully no one reports his ominous and kinda suspicious presence there in the back of a shitty tavern ready to spy on his... bard? Friend? Fuck. Whatever.

That's surely not an excuse, even if Jaskier is _his_ something. He has no reasons at all to do this. He has no right to spy his business, he has no right to break his privacy – especially when Jaskier kindly asked for it – and his trust.

Still, he can't bear himself to turn around and leave it all be. He still doesn't know why he is doing that, damn it.

The conversation between Marx and Jaskier is already in the middle of it, Geralt finds out as to what he's hearing. He grits his teeth: somehow, even though it does not make any fucking sense, knowing that he misses parts of it makes him mad. “–so, Valdo, what do you think? I don't know if you're still up to it, and I don't really mind if you aren't, so don't you worry at all.”

That's Jaskier. It seems that he's being talking for a while. Shit.

Geralt leans a bit, and from the corner of the window he sees Marx and Jaskier still seated there on the table, but they changed positions: now, Marx is where Geralt was, on the opposite side of Jaskier's, and their hands are on the table, still tight in each others. Hm.

Marx is looking at Jaskier with blinking, wide eyes. “I knew that one day you would have surrendered to me, my beloved. You did take your time, but here you are now.”

Jaskier grimaces, and shifts in his seat, “Well, I didn't understand a lot of things before, Valdo. Now I am more...” he shuts up, then he sighs, “Wise, now.”

“You are getting old, my dear. You aren't that gallivant beautiful boy you once were at eighteen, when you ran away from Oxenfurt in search for adventure, instead to join me here.”

“Fuck you, Valdo, I'm not even thirty!”

“The point?” Marx flutters his lashes, grinning. Geralt grits his teeth even more, he feels them chip for the force of it. “You know I want the best for you. And the best is this, Julian, the same life you wanted, the life I unconsciously took away from you. If you're willing, I am going to share it with you.”

Jaskier takes his hands away from his with a dry shove, “You're _kind_ , Valdo, but I don't regret one bit of the life I made for myself. I'm not here so you can _share_ your luxuriant, expansive life in the King's court as if I'm such a disgraced, poor loser, and feel smug for it too. Considering that you cannot ask my father for my hand, I am the one who makes the rules. I don't really know how courtships work, I admit it, I never cared for it before, but just to make sure, Valdo, if you really want _me_ , you have to accept the fact that I won't ever stop wander around the Continent and sing in the worst shittiest taverns and banquets. I won't ever leave Geralt's side until the day I die. And I don't fucking care about old age.”

Whatever twists in his insides eases when he hears Jaskier's words. _I won't ever leave Geralt's side until the day I die_. Geralt shouldn't be happy about that, no. He tried for so long to get Jaskier out of his way – even if he doesn't want to, _he doesn't –_ that now he shouldn't linger in the relief he feels now, knowing that no one, nothing, will take Jaskier away from him.

Apart death. He really does not want to think about Jaskier's death – he still feels the dread about what's happened with the Djinn, that haunting thought that it's been all his fault, the churning sensation that he is there, spying on him, growling by himself while he watches, hidden and put aside, as Jaskier starts to love someone that isn't him.

He should stop eavesdropping their talking. He should let Jaskier go on with his life even if Geralt doesn't like the man he chooses for himself.

He almost walks away and finally go saddle Roach, but the next thing Marx says stops him dead in his track. “We'll see about that, Julian dear.” he grabs again Jaskier's hands between his. Jaskier doesn't fight his grip, “We'll see, because for what you told me, you _do_ think that travelling with your Witcher isn't enough anymore, am I right?”

Jaskier doesn't respond to that.

“That's what I thought. Julian, my dear Julian, you are perfect even with those lines under your magnificent eyes, but you have to understand that the very same are proofs enough that the life you're living isn't for you anymore. And yes, yes, I know, you are barely thirty but it's hardly the point, because you maybe would like to trot behind the Witcher until you turn into ashes, but your body won't help you in that. And your Witcher, though, do you really think that he'll keep a useless weight with him, even when you won't be able to sing to the masses and gain coins anymore, even when you won't be able to walk at his pace anymore, even when you won't have this pretty face anymore?”

Jaskier lowers his eyes, and still he says nothing. Geralt clenches his fists until he feels his nails digging into his palms, until he feels his nails ripping his skin in tiny, half–moon shaped wounds that will disappear in less than an hour. How dares he. How dares _he_. How dares this man talk like this to Jaskier, how dares this fucking man tell Jaskier what Geralt would do. He knows nothing, _nothing._

“Julian, you are a being made to love. And you did, you did spread love all around the Continent, I know that. Everyone knows that, actually. Anyway, now you need someone who loves _you_. I am honored to be the chosen one, if you will let me.”

“Let's start this slowly, shall we? First the courtship, then... then we will see.”

Marx grins, lifts one of Jaskier's hands to his face and poses a kiss on Jaskier's knuckles. Jaskier tries to smile too, but it seems more of a grimace than anything else, really – and that, that makes Geralt even more mad.

Now, Geralt feels _rage_ swelling inside his chest. This is good, he knows how to handle anger and rage, he can understand it better than whatever was happening in his guts before. That doesn't mean that he'll live with it and go away from Cidaris, turning his back at Jaskier – on the contrary. Anger always makes him do the stupidest thing, and now, now will be one of _those_ time: he'll act, without thinking.

He'll find some excuses to extend his stay here in Cidaris, because he won't leave Jaskier in the hands of a man that uses his insecurities to let him stay by his side. If he really loved Jaskier, he would let him do whatever pleases him, he wouldn't try to clip his wings.

It's the least he can do, for Jaskier.

❊

Not that he had much hopes about that, but he thought that his conversation with Valdo would have gone better. Instead, Valdo's words has left some uneasiness inside of him that he didn't expected.

Jaskier now just wants that Geralt really waited for him, that he's not already gone. He... kind of want some distraction, and somehow convinces himself that what he's doing is for the best, is for having a proof that Geralt may or may not care for him one day, just a little bit at least. Even though now, thinking again of his plan – _plan_? – he cannot find any sense in it anymore.

He thinks, now, that what he's about to do is totally useless.

But he accepted it, he accepted Valdo's courtship. He already has one of his rings on his finger, a quite plain silver band on his pinky, just to have a token of their relationship – their wannabe relationship, that is – waiting for the official one, that won't come for at least a couple of months. Jaskier shivers at the thought: he just really, really hopes that he can let himself change his mind, so at least... at least he will achieve something. A husband that loves him. An actual love life that lasts longer than a night. A place where that he can call home.

Even if, for ten long years, home has been where Geralt is.

Probably this will never change, but... but at least he'll have some place to go, when Geralt will throw him aside because he's too old to follow him around.

He sighs, then flinches when his brain registers the off–key hums behind him. He very much preferred to go to Geralt alone, but alas, Valdo and he agreed that Jaskier would stay at his house for the time being, so after the – heartbreakingly, for his part – goodbye, they'll head there. Probably at the King's palace, if the men from yesterday said the truth. He didn't inquire too much, too preoccupied to reach Geralt before he departs.

When he sees a familiar white head next to a familiar brown mare once stepped into the stables, Jaskier sighs again, but this time with relief. “Geralt! There you are, I was almost afraid to have lost you. Are you done? You didn't even bought supplies, Gods, what have you done until now? Uh,” he frowns as he gets near him and sees the _darkness_ in his face, the even more scary than usual grimace of disgust twisting his expression, “uh, are you alright? Geralt?”

Geralt looks at him, and twists his face even more while trying to school his expression, “Fine.”

Jaskier bends slightly his knees, so he can have a better look at his face even if Geralt stubbornly has it down, towards Roach. “Are you sure?”

“Hm.”

“As in, sure sure?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “What did I just said?”

“That you're sure?”

“ _Yes_.” Geralt sighs, but when he looks at him again, the darkened face is disappeared. That eases the discomfort that Jaskier's feeling. At least he's not angry at _him_. Well, not this time!

“I think your friend, dear Julian, needs more rest.” Valdo steps closer and creeps an arm around him as he sets between them, with a grin and a swaggering of hips, “Perhaps you should stay here another day, mighty Witcher?”

“I might.” Geralt says, and bares his teeth in a smile not at all amused. “I might. I find out that some fishermen got lost near these parts. I need to investigate. It might get a while.”

“Oh, oh really?” Jaskier should not feel this happy, but he is. _Sorry Valdo,_ he thinks, _as long as Geralt stays here, I have no time for you_. “So... you'll stay?”

Geralt's smile softens. But maybe it's just Jaskier that wants to see one of his rare, kind smile addressed to him, “For a few days, at least.”

“Great!” Jaskier winces, then clears his throat. Valdo's arm is still around his waist, “I mean, what do you think it is that's killing fishermen? I thought Cidaris was a pretty peaceful and controlled city.”

“It is, my dear.” murmurs Valdo into his ear, leaning on him.

“It's probably some sea creature, nothing too worryingly. Probably an ekhidna, maybe two.” answers Geralt, with his _angry_ voice. The one he uses when he's _not_ amused, when he would like to be anywhere but where he actually is. The voice that more than once he uses with Jaskier when they had to run away from a town because some cuckold found him into his bed with his wife. Oh, no. Geralt doesn't like to stay there and see an openly demonstration of affection, and he definitely doesn't like to see as Valdo hugs him.

Subtly, he looses the grab Valdo has on his hip. Jaskier really was waiting for an excuse to shake him off, so he doesn't mind the loss of contact. Gods, he doesn't like him yet, Valdo needs to give him time if he wants this thing to work! “Ekhidna? We never hunt ekhidnae before! May I come with you?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him, “Since when do you ask?”

Jaskier shrugs, “Since now? Anyway, is that a yes?”

“Are you perhaps insane, Julian dear?” Valdo shrieks, turning his by the shoulders to look at him straight into his eyes. Valdo doesn't seem amused either, now. Is it possible that Jaskier is able to make every person in his life mad without even _trying_?! “You shouldn't go with the Witcher, it may be dangerous! What if something happens to you?”

“You know that I'm doing this it's been, what, ten years? This is hardly the first time.”

“But now you have a purpose in life, my love.”

“Right.” Jaskier glances at Geralt, and he sees him watching Valdo with a strange mixture of disgust and anger in his expression that it can be quite comical, if he doesn't feel the same. _Gods, oh Gods, oh Melitele please, let Valdo be more bearable for now on. He needs to be, or this will go nowhere!_ “Right, yes. And what's my new purpose, Valdo?”

“Being my husband, of course! What if this creature scars your beautiful face?”

“Good. As long as you don't get scarred, you can come.” Geralt says, with his tone flooding with sarcasm, “Who cares if you die or not? What's important is that if you get killed with your face intact, your future _husband_ can have a pretty corpse to cry upon.” he snaps, then he turns around and grabs a bucket filled with water for Roach, and lets her drink.

Jaskier flinches at those words. _Who cares if you die or not?_

Consciously, Jaskier knows that Geralt doesn't mean that. Geralt is mad at something, probably whoever gave him the job about the lost fishermen was rude, or aggressive. Maybe the hunt itself is more complicated than he makes it seem. It's just that... that he _did_ almost die when Geralt said something he didn't mean, and the memory is still too fresh in his mind to just brush it off.

“Oh? That's not what I meant, dear Witcher. For what I know hearing Julian's stories, you would not let him die so easily. He always feels safe with you, aren't you, Julian?”

Jaskier is watching Geralt right in his eyes. He would not lower his gaze. He nods, though – while he starts fidgeting with his hands, playing with his pinky and twirling Valdo's ring.

Geralt snarls again, “Don't fuck with me, Marx.”

“I wouldn't dare!” says Valdo, smiling.

Jaskier touches lightly Valdo's shoulder, “Valdo, why don't we go to your house now? We should let Geralt rest before his hunt. Didn't you say that you would lend me that book about courtships?” he says, biting absentmindedly his lips. He doesn't really want to leave Geralt, he much prefers go with him, but he feels like the Witcher doesn't want his presence near him right now.

And he still feels like shit for what he said. If he has to brush it off, he needs a minute or two.

He doesn't look at Geralt while he says, “See you later, Geralt!” trying to sound cheerfully.

He walks away with Valdo on tow, but then, Geralt's low voice catches his ears and stops him in his track, “I'll wait for you, before I go investigate.”

And Jaskier, Jaskier is weak. And he's in love, more importantly – with probably the wrong man, with someone who'll never reciprocate, but he still is nonetheless. So he won't turn down an occasion to pass the time with him, especially if Geralt – in his kind of way – asks for it. He still seems pretty angry, with his deep frown and his clenched jaw and hands closed in fists – but still, he asked. Geralt didn't put him aside.

“Alright! Meet you at the inn then, guess you will extend our stay there, after all.”

❊

“Fuck.” Geralt says to Roach, once Jaskier is out of sight, walking side by side with that fucker.

It didn't start well. It didn't start well _at all._ He's not fucking good with this shit.

❊

Jaskier walks slowly, taking his merry time watching the as the city lives, as the marketplace pullulates with shouting women and laughing men, as the children run and play, and the whole streets smell like fresh from the oven bread and, ugh, fish. But that's okay, Jaskier loves this place.

He always loved Cidaris, even before setting foot in it.

Valdo marches wobbly in front of him. Sometimes he raises an hand to greet a passerby, but he doesn't stop to talk to them – thank fuck, Jaskier is not in the right mood to chat and, ugh, be introduced as Valdo's _future fiancé._ Not now, not ever, if you ask him, but he can accepts it only if he can actually change his mind _and_ fall in love with him. And right now, he's achieved neither.

Suddenly, Valdo takes a side road. Jaskier obviously follows him, but as far as he knows – he may be wrong, he's never been in Cidaris before after all – this is not the right way to the King's palace.

“You don't live in King Ethain's palace?” he asks then, quickening his pace. Valdo has that strange way of walking, he seems perennially drunk, so Jaskier has no trouble at all while running after him. He's not like when he travels when Geralt – the fucker also has a horse, and it's common knowledge that horses are faster than humans.

“Oh, yes.” Valdo nods, “I do have a private wing in the King's palace. But with the little fortune I gained until now performing for him and his court, I have been able to buy for myself a place more... exclusive.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue, “Of course. Why did I even ask.”

“Ah, Julian, Julian. All of this will be yours too, one day, don't sound so envious.”

 _Well, it can be_ , Jaskier muses while walking and ignoring Valdo's chatters. _If I am patient enough, I can marry him. Then I can kill him immediately after, and finally all of his will be mine. Just mine, not also mine. Yes, yes, sounds like a good plan!_

He groans. He wants to fall in love with him, for fuck's sake, not planning his murder. Again.

The sound of crushing waves reaches his ears and Jaskier's head snaps up, following with a quicker pace a smug Valdo. He doesn't see the sea since he left Lettenhove, he kind of misses it. He can't wait for his feet to sink into burning sands and freezing waters, he can't wait to see the fishes dancing around his legs and algae tickling his skin.

Valdo stops in front of a little cottage by the sea – oh, and now his brain is thinking again of a plan to kill Valdo and obtain this proprieties! – and, with a flourishing gesture, opens the massive door for Jaskier to enter inside his house, bowing until his forehead almost touches his thigh, “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

“Ugh.”

Jaskier sinks himself into the burning waters, sighing contently while surrounded by the steam. His aching limbs twitch lightly – he didn't know that he needed to make his body relax until now. He closes his eyes, and rests his head to the edge of the tub, steadying his breath and easing his mind.

But he doesn't let himself fall asleep.

Sighing, he leans to the side until he can grab the book Valdo lent him before leading him the way to the bath. Jaskier has watched the house as he walked by his side, and, Gods, it's perfect – it's not an enormous house, thanks for that because in larger places, he feels lonely. This, this seems cozy and comfortable, just as he likes. Valdo is rich, Jaskier has to admit it. He's disgustingly rich, and every angle of this house is proof enough for that. The paintings, the expensive furnishing, the bath is actually soaking in is made of marble. Marble!

Jaskier always loved living in luxury, it's useless to deny it to himself. Still, he feels a pang of disappointment now, because somehow he kind of misses the shitty baths of the inns throughout the Continent: especially if in those baths, he had the possibility to touch – sadly, not in the way he'd like to – Geralt. Washing his hair, scrubbing the blood stains off his skin, rubbing chamomile onto his lovely bottom.

Jaskier brings the book in front of his face, while settling again his his neck against the edge of the tub. He doesn't really care if one of Valdo's possessions gets wet, really, so with dripping fingers he starts to turn the pages, until he finds what he's looking for.

_When a young man eyes a chaste, graceful, young girl–_

Jaskier closes the book and lets it fall into the floor, groaning loudly. Droplets of water splash against its cover, but he doesn't care: hell, he'd like it to _burn_. He never liked to read, because books are boring, and ancient, and they're filled with useless shit – he prefers to write the things he'd like to read, he thinks that he's better than the authors nowadays.

He's starting to think that the whole courtship thing is just a bunch of pitiful notions about what a man should do to finally get under some unfortunate's gown, what a woman should say to appease her love, what the people should act while they're supposed to be in love – like on a stage.

Terrible, if you ask Jaskier. Not his thing at all.

And more importantly, he's not a fucking _chaste_ girl!

Rolling his eyes, he opens the book again and continues to read, just to know what Valdo is about to do. He's just trying to prepare himself, that's all.

_When a young man eyes a chaste, graceful, young girl who has all the necessary requirements to be the mother of his children, he has to take the following steps really seriously. First of all, he needs to buy her a present that she can put on her person: if she wears it the next time he sees her, it means that she's accepting the courting, that is about to start._

Jaskier frowns, and eyes the ring Valdo put on his pinky.

_After that, he needs to woo her with gifts. Food, for showing that he will be able to support her, that he will bring food at their table and never let her starve. Clothes, for showing that he will always be ready to cover her whenever she is cold. Flowers, with more than one meaning, to let her know what his feelings are. Jewels, for showing that he will be able to please her in her every caprice._

Jaskier is impressed. He doesn't really like their meaning, but he can let that slide if it means that he'll gain all of those things. He's completely alright in accepting food, clothes and, especially, jewels. Not so much for flowers – Valdo will never gift him the flowers he learned to love on the road with Geralt, the ones he collected and braided in Roach's mane – but it can be fine anyway.

_Once his lady accepted all the gifts, he needs to talk to her parents–_

Jaskier grimaces and passes over that paragraph. He surely won't waste time reading something that he needs not to know, considering that last time he saw his parents he was maybe fifteen, before Oxenfurt.

_At this point, the relationship it's official, but the courting has a duration of at least six months. During this time, even if the couple gained the blessing from both their families, the young man has to keep giving his lady gifts, to make her understand that he will keep her spoiled even after their marriage._

_Chastity is requested until the wedding night._

Jaskier yawns, playing distractedly with a strangely thorn page. Then he throws the book again on the floor and, splashing water all around the tub, he stretches his relaxed limbs. The water is not so hot anymore, sadly, but if he's not wrong, he can linger in its warmth for at least half an hour more, before it gets cold. And that's entirely what he wants to do, before getting dressed and join Geralt in his investigations. Maybe... maybe if he lets some of the nervousness he still feels because of Geralt with a wank, he will feel even better. Even more relaxed. Whenever he touches himself before meeting Geralt, Jaskier feels completely refreshed, and more able to use his brain without it being fogged with want.

But the moment his hand not even twitches toward his thighs, the door of the bathroom burst out open with a force that Jaskier didn't know Valdo has had in him.

“Julian, dear, I brought you something that you surely like!”

 _Geralt?_ Jaskier hopes. _I really would like to have Geralt here now. Uhm, maybe he has followed us here? Maybe he came to pick me up, but got bored of waiting._

That's likely impossible. In fact, when he looks at Valdo, the man is swaggering towards him with some bottles in his arms and a malicious grin on his face, “Oils, my dear. Your favorites.”

Jaskier leans on one side of the tub, with both his arms cradling his face on its edge, and rolls his eyes. “Now that I think about that, my taste probably changed since Oxenfurt. You hardly found my favorites, I already know that.”

“Ah, ah. No more talking, Julian. Try them, then you can yell at me as you want.”

Jaskier winces. Gods, this whole thing resembles so much when he tries to coax Geralt to use one of his perfumes, usually right before a banquet where he is asked to perform and Geralt is like their host of honor after getting rid of some monsters. The more time he passes with Valdo, the more he is convinced that he's treated him the same way Geralt's treated him. Oh, Melitele. His head hurts now.

Jaskier, without changing position, grabs a vial with soothing blue color liquid inside. He uncorks it and sniffs the oil, grimacing immediately after. Too strong. He grabs another one, as yellow as the drying grass, and repeats the process. He almost gags: too acrid, his nose pinches now. The last one, a reddish one, is so sweet that his headache, if possible, becomes even more painful. “As I thought, none of them appeals my taste. I guess that hearing some gossip through the walls of Oxenfurt isn't enough to know me.”

“This is the oils that I use, my dear. I find quite pleasurable knowing that on your skin there is my perfumes.” Valdo smiles, and hands him again the blue one. “Believe me, this is perfect for your body.”

Jaskier doesn't take the vial from his hands, “Valdo, if you want to gift me presents from now on, I hope you start to follow my advices, instead of following what _you_ like. That won't make me happy.” he pouts, and Valdo brings an hand to cover his eyes, exclaiming out loud that he won't wrong him ever again. “Good, so listen attentively. I use oils that aren't so powerful of scent, and have almost a soothing effect on _someone_ 's very picky nose. I am very drown in bergamot, actually, but I don't use it so much as I used to. Right now, chamomile is definitely my favorite one. It's sweet, but not saccharine. It's light, but leaves a gentle trail behind. And more importantly, the oil I use has an extra lenitive function, for aching limbs and burning bottoms.”

Valdo ogles him, raising his eyebrows, “Burning bottoms?”

“That is not what are you thinking about, you idiot.” he sighs, “Grab my bag for me, will you? I am just going to use my oils, now. Next time, bring me the right one, and I will _wear_ your gifts.”

Valdo turns his back to him, while he searches for his bag between his clothes accumulated on the floor, “Some oils have an ulterior function, as you said, my dear. I prefer to use the blue one while sinking into the pleasure of the flesh.”

“Ugh.” is Jaskier's sound of disgust, “I hope this is not why you were so eager for me to use that one?”

Valdo looks at him, with a smug grin and Jaskier's bag hovering on one of his fingers. “No?”

“Disgusting, disgusting. Utterly unpleasant.” Jaskier flicks out a hand and Valdo hands him the vial with his chamomile oil in it. Well, at least he did find the right one straightaway! “I read the book, Valdo. Remember, _chastity_! We need to remain chaste until wedding night!” It's going to be very problematic, but if this will take Valdo away from his bed at night, he'll gladly remain without sex for the next six months! Or, well. Five months. Maybe three? “Now, off you go. I have to wash myself before the water becomes cold.”

“May I stay?”

“You may not. Get the fuck out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are very appreciated and encourage me to keep on writing! ♥
> 
> Say hi to me at my tumblr! @countessdestael

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very appreciated and encourage me to keep on writing! ♥
> 
> Say hi to me at my tumblr! @countessdestael


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